DOMINGO
6:08 PM
Dahlia Gray
Every step felt like shallow breaths.
In a two-week time frame, I have not talked to Harlow once.
There was an attempt, at least, but it ended in him turning his back to me and walking away. I could feel my knees buckle under me with each step he took, and the air in my lungs knocked out with each second that strains upon us. There was an indescribable pain that was designated in my chest—tightening, and rubbing bones against one another, each breath piercing.
It hurts, but I'm trying to progress.
I took in Aysa's words like the verses of a Bible, and tried to hold myself accountable to all the action I wish upon me. I'm trying to draw the line between who I am without Harlow and who I can be furthering this notion. It's been hard, but it's working.
And my mother is one of the main reasons for it.
She started to re-attend church, in a disclosed location filled with majority Hispanics. It has always been small gatherings, little Bible readings here and there, but nothing too extensive that would catch my father's attention. Just her and God.
Today, she invited me along.
My relationship with God severed years ago, and I would like to brand myself as an agnostic. I find the truth of science much more comforting than the notions of theological beliefs, but I never question nor judge my mother for putting her faith into the one thing she knew how. It was her way to cope as much as the stars were mine.
Normally, I wouldn't go. I would rather wallow away in the pits of my bedroom or head to the park to listen to a playlist fitted for my mood, but today—I decided to branch out and go against my usual antics. It was more than just sitting alone at home with the background of a football anthem playing on speakers, or heading to a park that brings back painful memories in its parts.
I stepped into the church I longed since forgotten about, and greeted the priest and attendees I haven't associated myself with in years. I've never been here before; unfamiliar faces took my vision, smiling and greeting me in Spanish as my mother stood beside me as a moral support and guide.
She fills me in about the people here, the regular attendees that would fill the pews of the church and conversing around the coffee machine and the nuns and priest that would come around the large building, acknowledging new faces and greeting old ones alike. It made her feel seen, she reveals, and that itself was enough for me to encourage her to keep going.
Today wasn't an average day. It was a church celebration, commemorating something I didn't quite grasp. A long white tablecloth sheet drapes over a wooden table, decorated with a cornucopia of food and drinks for guests to take upon as they please.
I don't know what exactly we're here for, as my mother pulls me to the one of the pews, taking a seat on the second row, but I shut my mouth close and listen, one earbud in at a time.
The priest begins standing at the front of the church, draped in a long black robe, he reads off the verses in the Bible for the entire public to hear and situate themselves on. Attentive ears follow his language as he spoke in a clear authoritative tone, fluently translating the words off the pages into Spanish for the majority to comprehend. My mother being one of them.
She brightens with glee as her eyes follow the priest, open ears to the words of Christ. I lean my head against her shoulder, wrapping both arms around her as if I was clutching onto a teddy bear. The music in my ears beats in rhythm, gradually growing stronger and louder, sedating me to the sounds of Towards The Light by Jacoo.
I don't listen to the priest as he walks up and down the aisle, greeting the eyes of everyone he meets. I don't listen to him as he literates the word of God and how the world is meant to be exactly how it is, and I don't listen to him as he explains Christ will save us from damnation.
Instead, I follow the rhythm of the song, the gradual beats heavily inducing me into a sense of peace within a grounds I wasn't entirely comfortable with. A mark of a portable park bench, my own serenity in a place I can't exactly call my own.
It drowns me into my thoughts, and once more, what follows the deep-end silence is a protruding train wreck that unravels at the seams. My first destination: Harlow.
I shut my eyes close, trying hard not to think of him. It's difficult, when he carries the rhythm of my heart and the blood that pumps through my veins—but I feel like I could. I can.
And if not, I have to.
"Dahlia," my mother mumbles, brushing her lips against the crown of my hair and drawing my eyes wide awake. "¿Estás bien?" Are you okay?
I tilt my head upwards, brown eyes meeting her crystal blue ones, and hiding away the sorrow that follows that question. "Estoy bien," I'm fine, I lied, not wanting her to assume the worst on a good day. I haven't told her about the fallout between Harlow and me, because deep down, I still wanted her to hold him on a pedestal of good assumptions. I don't want her to assume that, just because he did this one hurtful act, he's an outright terrible person. He's a good person, my person, and if my mother catches one whiff of his choices, she would never trust him again.
And for some goddamn reason, I want her to trust him.
Her gaze follows my expression, attempting to decipher me as best as a mother knows how. Her full lips part, wanting to add something, before she catches herself and shakes her head, careful strands of dark black hair falls from her headscarf. "Te amo," I love you, she said. "Puedes decirme cualquier cosa." You can tell me anything.
I sigh deeply, but nodding my head into the crook of her shoulder. I lean closer to my mother, a child seeking the warmth and comfort only a mother could provide, and hold her tight. I know that it's true, I can always trust her, but for this time, it's something I have to deal with on my own terms. In private. "Lo sé." I know.
━━━━━
DOMINGO11:03 PM
Dahlia Gray
I drove my mother home.
It was very surprising when she led me towards the driver seat, hazily stating that she was too tired to go behind the wheel. Thankfully, I didn't panic. With my hours of lessons and finally being able to conquer my irrational fear of being the one in control, I manage to give us a steady ride home.
The radio hums in Spanish, much to my mother's delight. She's beaming from the passenger seat, with a glowing smile on her lips and her words musing to the lyrics of Ricardo Mantaner. At the church, they were playing one of his albums, and she couldn't resist dancing to the melody or singing along. She dragged a couple other attendees, who laughed at her moves but joined her in the process. I swear my mother was smiling so hard, I was afraid her cheeks would forever be stuck in those cheekily grins.
She was happy.
The evening ends as soon as the moon begins to appear out of the dark overcast sky, burning bright alongside the twinkling stars, and the buzz slowly dying out. While my mother sings from beside me, separated by the center console, I could see her eyes fading with the realities of returning home and her muscles itching to hold up the smile that's been plastering all over her face the entire night.
Returning to a home that doesn't blast music from the speakers, but instead gave broadcast sports commentators. A home where little interaction is made between the parents, save for the occasional small talks about work and the dinner being made on the table, and a home that gives her very little joy, reprimanding her with duties—as a wife, and as a mother.
I've never done this before, but I remove one hand off the steering wheel and reach over to her, placing my hand over hers. She stops for a second, eyes falling to our touch, before a small genuine smile wraps across her lips—separate from the joys and realities of the night.
I open my mouth.
I wanted to say it again: leave. The action is much harder than the word, but I wanted them to echo in her ears like the lyrics of her favorite song. I wanted her to listen because her fingers are brushing with the realities of who she can be without Clayton Gray, and she loves it. If she just made the move to leave, so would I—just like that.
She's the only thing holding me back.
But I don't say anything.
I pull into the driveway of our house, killing the engine, but making no motion to leave. The dim house lights illuminate the front porch, a stillness settling over the face of my house. An eerily feeling creeps up in my chest, at the look of the lonesome home, but I push away the feeling as an intuition that screams for me to be anywhere but here.
My mother unbuckles her seatbelt, allowing the buckle to drag across the fabric of her blouse, and she holds her spot for a moment. Her eyes washing in the house she dreads stepping into, especially after a night like this, but there's nowhere else to go. With a click of the door, she steps out.
A sigh escapes me as I follow her in suit, locking the door behind us as I hand my mother the keys to her vehicle when we meet at the front of the hood. The wind whistles against her skin, sending a shiver down her spines and raising the hairs on our arms. Step after step, closer to the door, I feel the eerie feeling creeping up my neck like vines on a tree.
My mother pulls out the house keys and slides one into the hole, turning for entry. Instead of its normal click, it doesn't move, jammed itself into the hole. I freeze.
"¿Qué pasa?" What's wrong? I ask, uncrossing my arms, brows pulling together as my mother pulls out the key and attempts with another one—despite knowing the right one to the combination. It doesn't work, jammed, and this time, the dread follows.
"No... No se abre." It won't...It won't open. My mother whispers softly, turning to me with big blue eyes. I don't say anything, with slightly parted lips, and step forward, taking the keys into my palm and attempting it myself.
I slide the key into the hole and twist, only to feel the jam of the lock. The center of my palm pressing against the unbudging key, despite the strength I'm adding into the twist, it just won't move. I swear, if I had done it any harder, the key of the door would've snapped in half.
My mother picked up on my frustration, holding out a hand in front of me. She stops me from proceeding, and as I turn to her with heavy breaths escaping me, she meets my gaze and tries to bring me down to a calm, composed state.
I have the temper of my father.
"Dahlia," she said evenly, "Probemos con el garaje. Tal vez algo anda mal con mis llaves." Let's just try the garage. Maybe something is wrong with my keys. She tries to offer, when we both know: it's not.
I don't say anything as I turn back, grabbing onto the knob and jingling it harshly, hearing the soft chimes of the bell on the other side of the door, dictating an attempted entry. I knew my father must've heard that.
My jaw clenches, and I peek through the slit of the sidelights, catching the projection of a blue screen bouncing off the wall, signifying my father's tv.
My mother doesn't allow me another second to wallow, as she grabs my shoulders and steadies me back, pulling me towards the garage keypad. While I stood beside her, arms crossed in a tempered manner, she presses down the digits to the passcode, and clicks enter as a finale.
We look up to the garage, waiting for the door to drag itself open and allow us to seek some shelter from the weather, but nothing happens. An outline hanging off the garage door opener, was a string, swinging back and forth.
"¿Has introducido el código equivocado?" Did you enter the wrong code? I prompt, looking to my mother. The weather is crawling into our bones, nuzzling under our skin, and freezing us from the inside out. I wanted nothing more than to enter the warmth of a heated home, even if it came with my father.
"No," she shakes her head, but doubt crowds the furrows between her brows. "Quizás. Déjame hacerlo de nuevo." Maybe. Let me do it again.
She attempted a second try, and when I looked up this time, the lights were flashing on. The soft clicks of the mechanics of the box are heard, but the door doesn't slide itself open. My eyes focus on the strings that dangle, curiously struck on how it plays into the center-piece of the garage opener.
When realization struck me.
It was the garage cord.
It's necessary for the automatic garage to pull itself open, and without it, it becomes manual. Only accessible from the inside.
He purposely pulled it out.
Anger fuels me like gasoline, my eyes narrowing and my chest puffed out, I march myself back up the porch with the return of blazing eyes and flames burning in my chest.
It consumes me, as I study the bell flashes of moving pictures projecting off the walls and ringing the doorbell like a manic seeking asylum. The seconds trickle down, and my anger boils, that I begin to bang my fist against the door.
"Open the door!" I scream, loud enough for the neighbors to hear. My mother quickly finds herself behind me, wincing at the volume of my voice, and placing a finger to her mouth—shushing me. He doesn't move. Fury rages inside of me, and I scream louder: "open the fucking door!"
My fists hurt, banging against the thick oak, and as my mother attempted to take my wrists into her hands—she failed miserably with her ripping my hands from hers and my anger exponentially grew for the man inside. "DAD!"
With one final bang, a loud, strong, furious one, something drops. I freeze, not knowing exactly what I did, but knowing something happened. I look to the side of my hands, red and nearing a rawness that would take ice and days to heal, and my finger glides across the skin before gritting my teeth.
"Dame las llaves," Give me the keys, I demand from my mother, resting out a hand, as she quickly oblige and places them into my palm, and I attempt a third to unlock the door. It works this time—the key sliding in and turning with ease, and I quickly kick open the door, slamming the bell against the walls of my foyer.
I step inside, a warmth contrast compared to the outside weather, but that's not all that's burning. My blazing eyes search for my father, my vision growing red, before I hear my mother muse softly behind me, "Dahlia."
I turn around, a fraction of delicacy breaks my exterior, and I see her holding a strange metal piece about the size of her palm, eyeing it with interest. I didn't know exactly what it was, but from the location of where it's founded, a couple of centimeters from the door, I can infer.
It's a door jammer.
I snatch it out of my mother's hand and march into the living room, where I'm certain he would be found. I switch on all of the lights in my wake, each step illuminating with a draw of lightbulbs following in trail, and as I quickly approach his living quarters, I scream: "¡Nos dejaste afuera!" You fucking locked us out!
I meet him, at the foot of the entrance to the living room, his eyes lazily find me as he sits rested against the cushion of his favorite chair. Rage pulses through my veins, my elevated heartbeat thrumming in my ear, and I couldn't help but feel the resentment building up for him. I look at his face, his neutral composure throughout all of this—leaving his wife and daughter out in the cold—and I fucking despite him.
I threw the metal piece in his direction, a weak arm with hostile intent and my eyes burn with fury. "¿Qué tipo de padre eres?" What type of father are you? I spat, words drilled out like a vicious lecture I've heard before. "¿Quién carajo te crees que eres? ¿Encerrarnos fuera de la casa? ¿Para qué? Dislocaste la puerta del garaje, atascaste la puerta principal; ¿Eres un maldito niño?" Who do you–who the fuck do you think you are? Locking us outside of the house? For–for what? You dislocated the garage door, you jammed the front door; are you–are you a fucking child?
The words fell out so easily, I had no time to repent on the choices and decisions I'm making. The memory burns into the side of my head, recognition striking me like a lightning bolt—that my own father locked us outside for the hell of it.
"¡Un maldito niño!" A fucking child! I cry, the words growing more desperate and vulnerable than I ever wished it to be. "Eres un maldito niño, y eres la peor persona en este mundo. ¡¿Quién carajo deja a su hija fuera de su propia casa?!" You're a fucking child, and you are the worst person in this entire world. Who the fuck locks their child outside of their own house?!
And there was silence.
There was tension that stings the air, and I could feel the weight of my shoulders dropping at all the words I've ever wanted to say to him. A tipping point to everything that's ever happened to me—to all the emotional abuse I've endured in the wake of his residence. I hate him. I'm done with him.
My father doesn't say anything at first.
He just stares at me with a passive front, remote controller in hand, before peeling himself off the couch and stalking towards me. Each movement felt like a predator to prey, the demeanor of his motions felt strict and heavy, and his features gradually contorted into a look of disgust and overwhelming loathsome.
I've never seen him like this before—the way his features easily switch over to a look of anger that quickly consumes and fades into the rest of his image with a glaring, vicious look that could kill.
My courage that built itself on the stepping stones of anger begins to die out as reality erodes the pillars, and I begin to recoil back at the look of his expression. A sudden panic spikes inside of me, and before I get the chance to step back from the escalating event—he slaps me across the face.
I stagger back in surprise, clutching onto my cheek as my father moves closer with a murderous intent building behind his eyes—and he slaps me across the face once more.
Tears prick the corner of my eyes as the sting of the slaps translate itself to the rest of my body to process. My words swallow itself along with every ounce of confidence I had built in the last few minutes, and a gasp nearly escapes from me. My father steps forward, I step back, and as I find myself helplessly pushed against the back of a wall with nowhere to turn to—both of my arms went up in fear of a third strike.
"Clayton!" My mother screams from the top of her lungs, jumping in front of me, extending both arms and shielding me with the mound of her body. My father aims another one at me, but stops centimeters from delivering it to my mother's cheek. "¡Para!" Stop!
My father pulls back, resentful eyes scan the looks of her face and his blonde hair completely disheveled from its previous state. He stares at her, like he's contemplating hurting her next, when instead he screams: "¡Criaste a una maldita perra irrespetuosa!" You raised a fucking disrespectful little bitch!
My mother bites back her tongue as I bite back the need to release relentless sobs; tears trailing down my face, chest heaving with labored breaths, and the sting of his slaps throbbing against my cheeks like a pulse. He continues.
"Ella viene aquí, como una maldita perra, y me grita. A su padre. ¡Criaste un pedazo de mierda irrespetuoso y ella debería estar contenta de que no la haya golpeado más fuerte!" She comes in here, like a fucking little bitch, and screams at me. Her father. You fucking raised a disrespectful, piece of shit and she should be fucking glad I didn't hit her harder!
My mother doesn't say anything for the next few seconds, taking in his lectures. My breathing laid waste in my throat, and I felt suffocated hiding behind her like a cornering child, but I had nothing else. It's getting harder to breathe, the words collapsing into each other, and my visions blurry through my restless tears—and my own mother couldn't even defend me.
"Nos dejaste afuera. Está enfadada, qué más podría ser—" You locked us out. She's upset, what else could she be—
"¡Llegaste tarde a casa!" You came home late! He screams into her ear, like a microphone. She winces. "¡Estabas fuera, Dios sabe dónde, y llegaste tarde a casa, quería enseñarte una maldita lección!" You were off, god-knows-where, and you came home late, I wanted to teach you a fucking lesson!
My mother looks up to him, blue eyes meeting his brown ones, "¿Qué ibas a hacer? ¿Dejarnos dormir afuera para probar un punto?" What were you going to do? Let us sleep outside to prove a point?
He didn't hesitate. "Si!"
It rendered her speechless, and she doesn't respond. His furious gaze moves beyond hers and finds mine, brown eyes burning at the mere sight of me. "And you—" he points to me, attempting to get ease around my mother as she pushes him back—he doesn't touch her—"Eres una maldita perra irrespetuosa y si vuelves a usar ese tono conmigo, te mataré." You're a fucking little disrespectful little bitch and if you use that tone with me again, I will kill you.
And this time, I didn't doubt that.
I hold my breath as I receive his scorns, and as seconds pass, and I can't find it in myself to locate the oxygen entering into my lungs. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't—
I shove my mother out of the way and run down the hall, dodging my father's attempt at grabbing me back and I dash through the door with nothing but the shoes on my feet. The first wave of oxygen mixes with the cool settling air and my salted tears.
I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I can't breathe.
I could taste the blood thumping in my ear, through hallucination or from biting down my tongue so hard back there—I don't know. My head feels in a haze. I don't know where I'm running to, the inner compass inside of me is broken, and the streets are looking the same through the blur of my vision.
The soles of my shoes brush against the concrete, and I could feel each jagged pebble as if it was an extension of me. I felt lost, like an abandoned puppy, and there was no sense of direction to go, no peace, no nothing.
I didn't even think of going to the bench, because I knew I was going to break down in ways unimaginable and I don't think I would ever get back up. The idea was far-fetched, but the image burns inside of me like a flame.
The only thing that felt coherent right now was Harlow.
So, I made a turn.
My sobs settle through the air and I'm holding back the chokes of my tears. My chest heaving, clawing with desperation for air, that I'm not quite sure I can give. I'm trying to gasp for oxygen, breath through my lungs, but everything feels so fucked that I think my body is beginning to shut down on itself.
I made it to the front of his porch, dragging my exhausted legs to the steps of the wooden porch, and noticing the bright house lights of his home still turned on. I took a few seconds to contain myself, suppressing the sobs threatening to spill, and ring the doorbell—once—before the action felt too small to feel acceptable, that I began to bang on the door. Hard.
The rawness of the side of my hand burns with each hit, but I don't care, because out of everything in the world right now, I just want to be in his arms.
The door creaks open.
And I step back.
And Harlow stood in front of me.
He doesn't say anything, looking beyond me as his gaze defocuses on my presence. I don't even think he's meeting my eyes, attempting to ignore me, as I'm trying so hard to grab his, and with his calm and cold composure, he spoke one word: "what?"
No emotions. No compassion. Just pure apathy.
And I break even harder.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I shouldn't have come here. Maybe he doesn't care about me like I thought he did and everything I consume of him was just a hallucinated fantasy cruelly played out for me. Maybe he is exactly like my father and being exactly like my father is the last thing I need right now.
I thought—after everything—I could receive the love I desperately needed from him. The person that's been with me through all, the person that sacrifices time, energy, and freedom just to make me feel okay.
Just to make me feel safe.
So, as my knees buckle under my weight, and my lungs collapse onto my ribs, and sobs are threatening to spill from my drying lips, and I can feel myself giving up on every single thing I've ever wanted in my life—five solid, steady words escape me.
"I deserve a love unquestioned."
And with that, I turned and left.
a/n: i want to dedicate this chapter to haseth01, i'm so happy everything is going well and you're doing well, i'm really happy for you! and i also want to dedicate it to munira1266 bc i promised her this chapter if she finished her homework and she did, so props to her 🥳